Within my House

First, there's the entrance, narrow, and so small,

The hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall;

That staircase, too, has such an awkward bend,

The carpet rucks, and rises up on end!

Then, all the rooms are cramped and close together;

And there's a musty smell in rainy weather.

Yes, and it makes the daily work go hard

To have the only tap across a yard.

These creaking doors, these draughts, this battered paint,

Would try, I think, the temper of a saint,

How often had I railed against these things,

With envies, and with bitter murmurings

For spacious rooms, and sunny garden plots!

Until one day,

Washing the breakfast dishes, so I think,

I paused a moment in my work to pray;

And then and there

All life seemed suddenly made new and fair;

For, like the Psalmist's dove among the pots

( Those endless pots, that filled the tiny sink! ),

My spirit found her wings.

“Lord” ( thus I prayed ), “it matters not at all

That my poor home is ill-arranged and small:

I, not the house, am straitened; Lord,

‘ tis I!

Enlarge my foolish heart, that by-and-by

I may look up with such a radiant face

Thou shalt have glory even in this place.

And when I trip, or stumble unawares

In carrying water up these awkward stairs,

Then keep me sweet, and teach me day by day

To tread with patience Thy appointed way.

As for the house.... Lord, let it be my part

To walk within it with a perfect heart.”